


This is a story of a man who starts and ends alone

by peanut49045



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depressed John, I'm Bad At Tagging, John is sad, Johnlock - Freeform, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls, Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 17:38:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18855838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peanut49045/pseuds/peanut49045
Summary: This is the story of a man who is alone.This is the story of a man who is no longer alone.This is the story of a man who is alone.





	This is a story of a man who starts and ends alone

**Author's Note:**

> Notes at end

> This is a story of a man who is alone. 

He could spread out his arms and touch both his hands on the walls of his flat. His was not a large man but his feet still hung off the bed. Each night he would bolt upright off the sheets dripping with sweat. The same sweat that soaked his pillow. His mind raced. Pictures of blood seeping through the sand. His bag empty of bandages. Tears in men’s eyes. He could hear the trigger being pulled and the split second of silence before the scream. He could feel the sting in his shoulder. He could feel his head hit the sand. He could feel his hands tremble as he tried to make clean stitches. 

 

Every day he put his pistol on the desk. Today is the day he would tell himself. Every night he put the gun away and said tomorrow. 

 

He could hear the women in the chair across from him. But he was not listening. He could see her taking note but he didn’t care to read them. He bought the laptop, like she suggested. Not because he wanted to or because it might help. But because he had nothing else to do. He would type but the words did not matter. The gun was still next to him. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow. 

 

He’s walks in the park were often cold and quite. The sound of his cane hitting the pavement was worst then the sounds of the bullets that wizzes passed his ear. It was the sound of failure. 

 

When he hear his name that day, it sounded strange to his ears. He had felt as though it wasn’t even his anymore. Just the name of a man that no longer existed. But he put on a smile all the same. 

 

Fifteen minutes later he stood in shock. His life had just been spilled out on the floor. Yet some how he wasn’t angry. He was impressed. He blinked and the man was gone. 

 

A day later he sat in a chair in a room that was now one shared. There was a quite moment were he questioned his decision to move in with this mysterious man. He thought about his pistol in the drawer. He hadn’t taken out this morning. 

 

 

This is a story of a man who is no longer alone. 

He ran through the streets with a man at his side. The sound of a cane long gone. He stood over bodies no longer in fear but in fascination as that man pulled out details seemingly from thin air. He sat in rooms covered in case files with the sound of violin in his ears. He laughed at the stubbornness of this mystifying man. He looked on at awe as mysteries and murders were solved in the blink of an eye. 

 

He smiled. He laughed. He ran. He slept through the night with no problem at all. The only time his pistol left his desk was when that danger that now pumped through his veins felt threatening enough to the man at his side. 

 

The words he typed were full of life. They made images of ally ways and hospital morgues and crime scenes. They showed the life of an admirer of an impossible mind at work. 

 

 

This is a story of a man who is alone. 

The blood was not on sand but on concrete. The tears were in his own eyes. The world was on mute except for his own voice. And the sound of body hitting pavement. 

 

He stood in the grass all in black. He felt hands on his back and hugs across his shoulders. He held back the tears but his voice still wavered. He stood alone staring at stone. He wanted to yell. He wanted to scream. He wanted this is be a lie. A dream that he would wake up from. All he could do was plea. Don’t be dead. 

 

His gun is on his desk the next morning. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello  
> I hope you enjoyed. Please comment or kudos. I love to hear if you liked it.  
> This is only my fourth shot at writing. So I’m not very good. Please let me know if there is any spelling or grammar mistakes. 
> 
> I literally wrote this on my phone at 3am.
> 
> This was inspired my this post: https://watson--watsoff.tumblr.com/post/101813259346/sunflowerlesbian-the-story-of-a-man-who-starts


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